Alexander gives no indication one way or another.
Picking up the Graves volume, you see that notes have been made in pencil in the margins. Dream-like passages of description like,"I walk beside the calm lake and I yearn for the City" and "When the inhabitants change, the way is open".
Martin studies Alexander for a moment and tries another tact. "How do you sleep, Mr Roby? I've been told that you oft suffer nightmares."
Mr. Roby remains silent.
Hearing Martin's mention of dreams after looking at the book, Victor walks over to take a look at the text.
"I walk beside the calm lake and I yearn for the city" Victor reads aloud, "When the inhabitants change, the way is open. That sounds a lot like a city with which we've been recently acquainted." Victor shares a worried glance with his companions.
Roby stirs. He still stares into his lap, but he speaks- if oddly. His cadence is slow and irregular.
"Being locked in this room is inconvenient. It means that I cannot finish my work and so I cannot go where I would like to go."
He pauses, the scratching of Reeves' pencil filling the silence.
"You know, few writers write honestly. Truths are used for entertainment only and that is a strange concept: it barely grazes what is of import. Such a writer is like a man whose only concern is to hide his ignorance... willful misinterpretation, a shut mind, closed eyes, a tight mouth and balled fists. It's not enough to have ability. You must be brave enough to use that ability, bring your intellect to bear like a light in the darkness, like a sane man in a world of madmen."
He smiles ruefully to himself and is quiet.
"What are you working on Alex? Are you a writer?"
Mr. Roby remains silent once more.
Successful Psychology/Psychoanalysis:
"Alexander, who is Deliah?"
Roby shifts in his chair and bounces his right leg on the toes distractedly. He still doesn't look up. The room is quite silent, you can feel tension rolling off of Roby... and affecting each of you.
Victor involuntarily finds himself tapping a toe on the stone floor while Spencer drums his fingers lightly against the cover of the Graves volume. Lucian runs a hand through his hair, feeling the unseen ridge of scar tissue where he was struck with a cobblestone. Martin badly wishes he could have a cigar about now. Even Price shifts his position by the door.
Roby speaks, loudly this time, leaving no time to respond.
"Have you seen the Pallid Mask? Have you been down by the lake and seen the beauty and felt the rightness of it all? Edwards said to work only with him. Are you with Quarrie? Why are they not here? Is it this year, once in five thousand years?"
Alexander is shouting now.
"Has Quarrie brought the King in Yellow? Is he already amongst us?"
Abruptly, Roby calms. And then he whispers.
"Have you seen the Yellow Sign?"
Martin thrusts his hands into his trouser pockets to still them from reaching for a cigar. His mind is spinning like a child's top.
Finally he kneels and looks up at Alexander, trying to peer into his eyes.
"We have all seen the Yellow Sign. We don't know if the King has come. Are you one of his heralds? Where is the lake?"
Roby's gaze is far away, he still doesn't make eye contact with Martin. In a monotone, he says:
"What Edwards and I are doing now harms no one. But I have been worrying about Malcolm Quarrie and the conversations we had. I think that -despite what Edwards might think- that Quarrie is right. The King in Yellow has called himself the White Acolyte."
Alexander fixes Martin with his eyes, suddenly snapped back into the present. He turns and looks at each one of you in turn.
"I don't think he will stay away. So here is a kindness I would like you to pass on to him for when he sees that the King does not offer him what he hopes. To divert the King's attentions away from our Earth and back upon the Dream City he must think of Cassilda's song:
"The stars that burn their charcoal death
shrink back, they feel the hoary breath
Of he who ransoms
Great Carcosa.
"He flees where Queen and Prophet met,
Where twin suns fall but never set,
Escapes the tomb of
Lost Carcosa."
Roby is quiet once more.
Martin:
Psychology
Spencer seems stunned, almost not believing the scratches in the margins on the book. At the answers being given to his good friend Martin, he goes pale, "How could this be!?" clearly written on his face.
Moments later he gathers his composure, but is still a little visibly rattled by the disclosure of this madman.
Lucian stands rapt through the interview and conversation, feeling the hairs on the back of his neck standing straight up as he listens to this eerie echo of his own past few weeks. He looks into his own thoughts since the play, trying to connect with this man.
Lucian's face is pale, and he feels almost sick thinking of his own inspired paintings and fevered dreams. "Alex, in my dreams I have worn the mask and the tattered robes, bore the sword through strange hallways. I have felt the red eye of Taurus gaze upon me. I have painted Carcosa upon the shore of Lake Hali." The artist swallows hard before continuing. "Where is the line, Alexander? What Edwards and you are doing harms no one, but what Quarrie plans will? What are you doing?" He gives the man a pleading look. "Help me know what I am doing."
Martin stares at the young man silently, unsure what to say. When Lucian speaks he finally tears his eyes away and, on seeing the man's pallid features, hopes that Alexander has an answer for him.
Roby stares silently at his lap, once more detached from the present.
Suspecting they'd gotten all they were likely to get, Martin decides to try for one more answer.
"Alexander," he says gently, "Can you tell us where we can find Quarrie? I want to be sure to remind him of the song and give him your warning but we're not sure where he is."
Alexander is silent, either unaware of your presence or unwilling to speak further.
"Well then," Martin says, turning to look at the others. "I think that's about as much as we're going to learn from him today."
"I quite agree, and in some ways I think that will be quite enough"
Spencer remains slightly visibly perturbed by Roby's comments.
Lucian turns and leaves without saying a word, promptly exiting the building. By the time anyone else finds him, his shaking hands are already holding his second cigarette, his eyes looking far past whatever may be before them.
Price locks Roby's cell behind you while Reeves takes his notes to the administration building to type up. Outside, the night sky is overcast blocking out the stars. The air is bracingly cold, though above freezing.
Victor heads out of the room with the others to meet Mr. Reeves and Price. When he sees Lucian move past them out into the courtyard, he puts his coat on and gives a concerned look to Martin and Spencer.
"I'd better make sure he's okay."
Victor steps outside next to Lucian and watches his breath freeze in the air for a few moments, giving Lucian some time to calm down before engaging him.
Martin watches the other two men standing together in the cold as he reaches for a cigar and lights it, drawing the strong smoke deep into his lungs.
Without looking at Spencer he says, "Alexander has been here for a while. It doesn't seem likely he could have heard about the play from here."
As Victor approaches, Lucian wordlessly tilts his cigarette case towards his friend, though his eyes are still gazing past what lies in front of them. He takes a long drag before speaking quietly.
"I think the most unsettling thing about that was how much of what he was saying were things that have been in my own head these past few weeks, Victor. A clearly mad man speaking directly of my thoughts. That leaves one of two options, correct? Either I am as mad as he is... but that doesn't make sense either, does it? My thoughts are my own, mad or not, and if he has got them too, then maybe they aren't really my thoughts. Our brains are thinking the thoughts of someone... or something else." He takes another long drag, reducing this cigarette to ashes as well. It shatters on the ground as he drops and extinguishes it.
"It may be even scarier to think that he and I may be sane," he finishes.
"The links to the play, and this whole 'King' business is getting a bit bizarre. Don't suppose our erstwhile playwright had been up her probing Roby for ideas? no probably not, but there's something really not quite right here. Just baffling. I will say though, that the chap in there should probably stay in there a great while longer"
"I agree. He definitely doesn't seem capable of resuming his life. When we spoke to Trollope, there was something he wasn't telling us. Perhaps it's just that Alexander frightens him. He certainly unsettles me."
Martin inhales deeply on his cigar.
"Alexander speaks of others. We can dismiss that as the ravings of a lunatic but it'd explain a great many things if this Quarrie is involved in everything going on."
"Whilst certainly the ravings of a lunatic, I wouldn't discount anything he said just yet. In amongst those mad ramblings were quite a few things we know to be worryingly apparent. What we will need to do is tread very very carefully indeed through this myriad of information - but we must be very carefull not to discard anything which may in fact manifest itself... like 'others'. We already had questions in mind about the crime itself, and things that just didn't add up, there may well have been accomplices or confederates still very much at large - we must determine whether others was some ambiguous othing, or some very real revelation as to the true nature of the crime, whether or not this 'Quarie' reference is just so needs to be established."
"I also agree that Trollope might need to be re-canvassed as early as possible, now that we have seen this for ourselves"
"No thank you." Victor raises a hand to Lucian's open cigarette case. "I've inhaled quite enough smoke for one lifetime." Victor smiles and subconsciously scratches a scarred cheek.
"I'm having these same dreams an visions Lucian. And to think that you, me and some man we've never met before are sharing these exact same visions tells me that there must be someone or something putting this into our heads. We need to figure out what it is and how to stop it." Victor takes a deep breath. "I don't want to end up like Estus, or worse, Alexander. I think for now, we should figure out what happened with this Roby case. That may give us some leads into just what the hell is going on here."
Victor places a hand on the Lucian's shoulder. "I'm gonna head back in there to see what Spencer and Martin are coming up with. Come on in whenever you feel ready."
Lucian's investigative spirit feels completely dampened for the night. He will elect to get a ride back into town immediately, where he will order an expensive dinner and a great many expensive drinks. If anyone feels like accompanying him, his generosity will increase after a few glasses have been drained, as he goes about the delicate business of self-medicating.
Spencer is of the opinion a fine meal and a relax is very much the order of the day, and will join Lucian for said indulgence...
Mr. Reeves presents you with a transcript of Mr. Roby's conversation after Dr. Highsmith signs off on it. The Doctor wishes you a good evening and the driver conducts you to Weobley where Dr. Highsmith has phoned ahead to reserve rooms for you. It's a bumpy, quiet ride through the dark countryside. A silence, a stillness blankets the area with the rapid approach of winter- having spent so long in London with its buses, tubes and autos, Weobley seems almost abandoned in comparison.
The Wheatsheaf is a two story stone inn with a wooden sign swaying in the wind. Warm electric lights illuminate the rough wooden interior and local patrons- farmers and herders, most likely, take a curious look up from their glasses and chess boards to watch you enter. Your driver brings you bags upstairs while you take a seat for dinner. It's a more rustic establishment than you're used to and your clothes and demeanor definitely separate you from the rest of the clientele. The bar mostly has beer on tap and whiskey- nothing terribly fancy, but decent quality. The local beef is the center of the menu- stews, pies and steak being the main draw, though chicken and pork are available if that's your preference. Those ordering the beef are rewarded with a quality cut of meat- Hereford's claim to fame.
You pass the remaining evening quietly, drinking and eating as late as you please, discussing the particulars of your visit. When you find its time to retire, you find your rooms to be clean though the beds are a bit narrow.
Lucian:
You're walking along a busy street in a city. It's night. You're in a hurry, but there are many other pedestrians about who slow your progress. Also, despite your haste, every twenty yards or so you feel compelled to stop and check that you have your key with you. You pull it out of an inside pocket of your jacket- it is a large corroded old-fashioned key on a very long loop of string- then thrust it back in. Once you hang it over your arm like a bag, a satchel, but you decide it's safer in the pocket and put it back in there. Then, as you take it out one more time, instead of the key you're looking at a small human-like figure, a fetish, lying there in your hand. It's grotesque and now there's something else- a sweet, fetid smell on the air, like rotting fruit.
You look up, disturbed, and the city is gone to be replaced by a flat landscape punctuated by mounds and hillocks and a few stunted trees. You stand with others. There's a pressure building as though a storm is in the air. You sense water nearby and the wind blows the smell to you. It's still dark but you can just make out and count nine shapes, pagan standing stones, placed around you. The quality of the air changes then the ground beneath you, your heart feels too big for your chest. Something is coming. There are cut-off screams and one then another, the people near you wink out like stars. You are alone, looking for the thing. You sense it at the last moment as it reaches out for you, takes you and lifts you up. lying there under its inspection. You can't help but look up into its eyes...
You wake up in bed. You are sitting bolt upright and your heart is racing. The nightmare can be recalled in every detail and the faint smell of rancid fruit permeates the room.
** spoiler omitted **
Lucian:
Lucian rises early the next day, his spirits apparently restored from the funk he was in yesterday. He hums cheerily as he peruses the morning paper, sipping from a large coffee mug that he's fortified with a little bit of whiskey, just to keep his hangover away.
To the first of the party to join him downstairs, he gives a jaunty grin and a wave over. "Not the best night's sleep, but new places always make me a touch restless," he says. "Funny smell about the place, like someone had left fruit out in the room and forgotten about it - I'm of half a mind to report it to the management, but these provincial places need to have a certain amount of 'rustic charm' to them, I suppose."
Martin spends the remainder of the evening silently contemplating all that they had learned and wondering about else might be done to follow up on events. Though he'd intended to enjoy several drams of whiskey, he ended up retiring early and falling quickly to sleep in the comfortable, though narrow, bed.
Awakening the next morning, he felt somewhat better. At breakfast he decides it's time to discuss events in earnest.
"Good morning, Lucian. If you don't mind my asking...where there any dreams? You know the type I mean. What of you, Victor?"
Lucian and Victor:
"Well my night was pleasant enough; I believe just about anything would be a bit mundane and run of the mill after yesterdays interesting turn of events; odd, rather odd, indeed."
Spencer tucks back into his cup of Earl Grey tea.
"A bit restless, but nothing too unusual. No yellow sign would be a match for that stew I ate last night. The stuff put me down faster than Mr Snow's pills." Victor adds with a chuckle.
Lucian looks a little bashful while his companions confess to completely mundane dreams. "Well..." He takes a deep breath and a long draught of his coffee. "Last night's dream was odd - odder, that is, than the recurring dreams I've had since the play. Or at least, odd because it was new." He shakes his head. "Listen to my rambling..." He then relates his dream to his companions, straining to recover every detail of the discovery in his pocket and the mysterious figure.
"I mean, I just chalked the whole thing up to my stomach not handling drink the way it used to," Lucian says lamely as he finishes, his despondent tone indicating that, faced with his dream in the harsh light of day, he is forced to reconsider.
You look up, disturbed, and the city is gone to be replaced by a flat landscape punctuated by mounds and hillocks and a few stunted trees. You stand with others. There's a pressure building as though a storm is in the air. You sense water nearby and the wind blows the smell to you. It's still dark but you can just make out and count nine shapes, pagan standing stones, placed around you. The quality of the air changes then the ground beneath you, your heart feels too big for your chest. Something is coming. There are cut-off screams and one then another, the people near you wink out like stars. You are alone, looking for the thing. You sense it at the last moment as it reaches out for you, takes you and lifts you up. lying there under its inspection. You can't help but look up into its eyes...
Martin nods slowly as he sips from his tea. "That sounds like it'd be quite...disturbing. Suppose that the key is, in itself, a metaphor. What might it be a metaphor for? Did you recognize any of the other figures at the...ritual?"
Lucian slowly shakes his head. "Not that I can recall... and all the other details are so vivid."
Martin sets his cup down on the table and absently fingers his mustache for a few moments as he thinks.
"Let's step away from your dreams for a moment and discuss our patient, shall we? I had meant to take the time on the train to share what Spencer and I learned and hear from the both of you but I fear I was too distracted by my own thoughts."
He takes a deep breath and releases it. "Spencer and I spoke to Dr. Trollope, received a short letter from Alexander's brother and an inspector at Scotland Yard. Grahame Roby's letter made it plain that he had no desire to speak to us and wanted only to maintain his privacy. He referred to Dr. Trollope and the Yard. At the yard we learned that while Alexander confessed to the crimes, there is no evidence to support his confession. In fact, everything points to an outside agency."
Martin takes another swallow of tea.
"The inspector also mentioned that a curious whistle was found, but I fear I neglected to follow up on that. Perhaps when we're back in London I'll ask after it. Anyhow, Dr. Trollope didn't have a lot of information to provide, except that his visits with Alexander suggested that the man was not ready to leave the hospital. Our 'conversation' yesterday leaves me inclined to agree with him."
He finishes the tea in his cup and places it on the table. "That about sums up what we learned. Did either of you learn anything of interest in your investigations?"
"Actually," Lucian says, setting his coffee down, "when I talked to the cook, she mentioned hearing a whistle. And furthermore, said that the slain parents had not a drop of blood in them, according to the constabulary. While I certainly wouldn't have Alexander over for a cup of tea in his state, he also didn't seem to be reliving any Stoker-esque fantasies. And that blood must have gone somewhere..." The artist gives a shrug. "...though I'll be damned if I have any idea where it may have gone." He gives another thoughtful look. "And she said that Alexander and his father had some sort of fight before the incident took place - though she wasn't forthcoming on any details. It certainly may have given him a motive, but that brings us again towards it being Alexander that committed the crime, which it seems we are fairly certain he didn't."
Lucian shakes his head. "I don't know, gents, it seems quite the muddle to me."
"I erm.. didn't find anything unusual at the funeral parlor." Victor blushes a bit as he recalls his ruined trousers.
"What makes me curious is, why Dr. Highsmith would think that Alexander is okay to be released. What we saw looked like quite a bit more than night terrors to me. Maybe Alexander has gotten a lot worse since Dr Highsmith had seen him last.. or maybe he had some ulterior motive to us going and talking to Alex. What do we know about Dr. Highsmith? Does he have a stake in this case being solved, other then helping his patient?"
Lucian frowns thoughtfully for a moment. "...Maybe we need to find out some more about the good Doctor Highsmith," says the artist. He looks about the table. "Alexander spoke of his companions in madness, correct? Might one of them be so mad as to try impersonating a doctor?"